


closer than i've ever been

by starsaregoingout (abovetheruins)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Hair-pulling, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Teasing, Throne Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 13:45:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13858992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/starsaregoingout
Summary: Night reigns over the Woodland Realm, the moon hanging full and ripe in the dark sky, and you are alone with your King.





	closer than i've ever been

**Author's Note:**

> a while ago an anon sent me an incredibly inspiring ask on tumblr that resulted in... well, this. and by 'this', i mean 'self-indulgent throne sex fic ft. thranduil with a hair pulling kink.' 
> 
> if that’s not your thing, this fic probably isn’t for you. if it _is_ your thing, enjoy!

Night reigns over the Woodland Realm, the moon hanging full and ripe in the dark sky, and you are alone with your King. There are no guards, no scouts, no servants. No sound, save your own tremulous breaths and the King's soft, steady exhalations. 

Alone with your King - for he _is_ yours, despite no elven blood running through your veins - and sharing his throne. 

You wonder what his kindred would think if they found you in this position, though you can spare little thought for anything save the eyes of the King peering up at you. Such a strange reversal from your usual dealings with the Lord of the Woodland Realm. So accustomed you are to his imposing stature, to craning your neck to meet his gaze, that you find yourself faltering at this new position, uncertain where to rest your eyes or place your hands. Your fingers curl loosely within his opulent robes, unwilling to tighten or pull despite the tremors racing up your spine and your body's ever-rising need.

You are aware of _everything_ : every hitch of your breath, every twitch of your Lord's fingers along the small of your back, the knowledge that you could be set upon at any moment by an oblivious guard or messenger - 

\- and the subtle smirk curling Thranduil's lips as you hold yourself still upon his lap. He knows - just as you do - that your caution may be great, but it is outweighed by something far more powerful: desire. After all, it is not merely by the whim of the King that you have found yourself here, trembling with restraint as your body clenches down around him, just enough of your clothing pushed aside so that he could sink within you unhindered. 

"Tell me," he says, tilting his head and regarding you with cool, curious eyes. His hips shift beneath you, making you gasp at the slight burst of friction where you crave it most. "What is it that you desire of your King?"

Heat flares in your cheeks. What you desire is clear in your mind and no doubt clear upon your face, though the words do not come easily to your tongue. "I want - my Lord, I _need_ \- " Your voice fails you, dries to dust in your throat. The eyes of your King are too much to bear; you duck your head to escape them and struggle to regain some sense of composure.

Your efforts are in vain. Slender fingers slip beneath your chin and raise your head until you're caught within fathomless blue once again. "You crave satisfaction, do you not?" Thranduil muses, his thumb stroking along the bend of your jaw. His other hand curls around the swell of your hip, its weight a warm presence even through your clothing. "No need to play coy; I can feel your need well enough." Without warning he pulls you against him, a ragged whimper tearing from your throat as he sinks even deeper within you, filling you with heat. "It is nothing to be ashamed of," he continues, his voice as smooth and steady as water trickling over rocks, as though he were not buried to the hilt within your depths. "I am a generous King; I shall grant your request. All you need do is ask."

You waver for a moment, frozen, lips trembling around the words you so desperately wish to say, before a deliberately slow thrust of your Lord's hips coaxes your voice free at last. " _Move_ ," you rasp, your skin aflame as Thranduil's lips curl in mute satisfaction. "Please, my Lord. M-my King. _Please take me_."

Darkness flares in the depths of Thranduil's eyes, his grip around your hip tightening for one moment of aching pressure before you're pulled into another thrust, and then another, and another. You whine at the pleasurable drag of his cock within you, your hips instinctively rolling in time with his. There is no thought, there is no _room_ for thought, not when sensation - flesh and breath and _heat_ \- grasp at the forefront of your mind, filling your head with fog. White noise. 

Your eyes flutter closed as you surrender to it. As you surrender to your _King_. Your breath comes in heavy pants, inordinately loud in the vastness of the great throne room. The sounds of your joining add to the cacophony: the muffled rustle of clothing, the slick meeting of flesh, and your own wild heartbeat, pulsing in time with the aching throb deep within your belly. 

The fingers gripping your chin trail slowly along the curve of your jaw, until a smooth palm can fit itself against your cheek. You tilt your head into the caress, a soft whine escaping your lips as Thranduil's thumb strokes along the bow of your lower lip, and blink heavy eyes open to peer at your King -

\- only to reel at the sight of your hands, no longer tangled within lavish robes but buried within pale hair, silver strands twined around your greedy fingers. Fingers that had moved entirely of their own accord and without your knowledge. 

You quickly pull your traitorous hands away, startled by your own brazenness. The steady roll of your hips grinds to a stop, apologies falling from your lips like rain, until the sudden sharp bite of your King's gaze upon your face halts the flow of your words.

"Continue," he demands, his voice a low rasp. You've heard that tone often enough to recognize an order when one is given to you, yet still you hesitate. 

"M-my Lord?" you stammer, breathless and uncertain. Surely he couldn't mean for you to... ? 

Thranduil says nothing, merely pins you beneath the weight of those eyes. Frosted blue. A winter storm, come to swallow you whole. You're helpless in the face of it.

So you swallow, slowly raising your hands to the crown of his head. You cannot disobey your King; you _will not_. 

You sink your fingers once more into long, silken strands, watching in rapt fascination as the ice leeches away from Thranduil's gaze, his order thus obeyed, to be replaced by a glaze of warmth that quickens your pulse. You marvel at the fall of soft, silver hair cascading through your fingers and the subtle tilt of your Lord's head, arching further into your caress. His eyes slip closed, lips parting around a breath that you can barely hear over the sound of your own racing heart. Your bodies resume their familiar dance, a keen building in your throat as you sink together once more. There's an added sense of urgency to Thranduil's movements now, however, a desperate edge to his grip and his thrusts that only serves to hasten your own release. You exist in a haze of heat and sweat and aching bliss. The slick sounds of your flesh meeting again and again fills your ears, coupled with your own frantic breaths and the softer exhalations of your King. Your fingers drag through his hair, trembling as they shift through pale locks and struggling not to tighten among the strands. 

Your eyes long to close, heavy with the weight of your impending climax, but you cannot look away from your lover. You _refuse_ to, for the Elven King lost in pleasure is truly a sight to behold, pale and fierce and _beautiful_. You drink in the familiar planes of his face, his strong brows, the fall of his dark lashes, and your heart fills with helpless affection. There is nothing of him that is not beloved by you.

A short, hard thrust takes you by surprise, makes you cry out, a breathless half-sob as your body is pushed to the precipice of release; you lose yourself for a moment, your fingers clenching, pulling at fistfuls of Thranduil's hair. You have no time to regret your actions, to spill apologies, to do _anything_ \- not when your King _groans_ , a low, guttural rumble you've never heard before, and pulls you in. 

His mouth is soft against yours, hot, _hungry_. You meet his kiss with a hushed, desperate whine, returning his fervor with more of your own. Everything else - your restraint, your _caution_ \- finally falls away, overwhelmed by your desire and the desire of your King. Your fingers twine further within pale locks, pulling in time with Thranduil's thrusts. The tighter you grip, the harder you pull, the more fervent his pace becomes, until you're swallowing gasps of air between increasingly desperate kisses, awed by the change in your King. Gone is his composure, his aloofness, his severity - all of the staples of his kingship, though his ferocity remains, channeled in his grasp on your hip and your cheek, in the slant of his mouth against yours, in the drive of his cock within you. 

And you can stand against it no longer. You sob as your orgasm crests and breaks through you, heat flooding your groin, your belly. It spiders through your limbs until you're left weak and panting, your brow falling against your King's as you struggle to regain your breath. You watch him through half-lidded eyes, fingers carding through his hair as he chases his own pleasure, and you gasp his name - not his title, his _name_ \- as you feel it shudder through him, feel the surge of his release within _you_. 

There is silence in the aftermath, the quiet of the throne room broken only by your breath, and that of your King. Thranduil's gaze upon your face is dark and piercing, devastating in its proximity, and your own eyes shy away, sheepish now that your passion has been spent. They land upon the fall of his hair and your own hands still buried within it, a soft huff of laughter startled from you at its mussed state. Catching your gaze, Thranduil's hands release you and drift to the crown of his head, his eyes widening a fraction at what they find.

"You have my deepest apologies, my Lord," you begin, only to break off in another burst of mirth as you carefully disentangle your fingers from his disheveled locks. 

The look Thranduil sends you is patently unamused. "Yes, well," he murmurs, smoothing down the worst of the damage your hands had wrought. "I suppose a wash is in order for us both."

It is only as he says the words that you're alerted to the state of your own body, the ache in your knees from being perched atop the throne for so long and the slickness staining your thighs. Warmth suffuses your cheeks at the reminder of your encounter, and you carefully avoid the knowing eyes of your King as you say, "Yes, of course, my Lord. Lead the way."

The low rumble of his laughter is his only reply.


End file.
